


A Safe Place

by TheElephant



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElephant/pseuds/TheElephant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas notices Albert in the trenches, and as he takes on responsibility for him, he grows closer and closer to this abused, quiet, beautiful boy. Is he the one Thomas could spend the rest of his life with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first work. So any comments would be greatly appreciated, and gratefully received.  
> Thank you for taking time out of your day (or night) to read my work. :)

Thomas is a man like any other. But, in many ways, he is unlike any man Albert had ever met. Albert was from a decent, and humble background. However, he thought ruefully, he was not as decent as the idyllic farm life he had led with his father, mother and brother. Well, it was only idyllic to these rich snobs who thought it was all about nice strolls in the country, and occasionally looking in on the animals. That was, Albert knew, very far from the truth. Early mornings, day in, day out; summer to winter to summer. Trudging across sodden, muddy fields, just thinking on the mundane routine he believed he would have to endure for the rest of his life - he laughed at the pure irony of the thought. Only the other day, he had been marching across similar terrain, but this time pondering a very different attitude towards life. 

His home, like him, had never been anything special. His father, mother, brother and him attending the family farm. It was boring, lonely even, but it was all he had ever known, and in an odd way he missed it. His brother, the one ray of light in his life who he missed the most, had passed three months ago. Strange. Had it really been that long? It seemed like only yesterday he had been looking into those greeny-brown eyes - a mirror of their mother’s - wide with fear and pain. Thomas was in that memory. The medic who had held Joe’s hand as he choked out of this miserable, decaying excuse for life. The comfort, and calm he seemed to have instilled in Joe, when he was so obviously scared shitless himself, was something that Albert would always admire and remember. He’d offered some kind words to Albert as he clung to the still-warm body of his brother; he’d been the only one to notice him when he no longer had his brother beside him. 

That had been the first time. Just when Albert had thought that there had been one act of kindness this bloody war hadn’t ripped out of his life, he had been called to their CO’s office. Captain Arrington, an officer who had ‘earned’ his commission by being born the Right Honourable Herbert Fitzroy Arrington, was a stocky man, almost the same age as Albert, with dull brown hair, and grey, lifeless eyes. Albert had noticed those eyes on him since the day Arrington had arrived to replace the previous officer who had had the misfortune to be shot through the brains by Fritz. That was the day all those looks manifested themselves. Had the fucker no mercy? His brother - the person he loved most in the world; the one who had piggybacked him home after he fell over and grazed his knees, and who’d taken their father’s belt for him more times than he could count - had just been released from this world of mud, pain and misery.

Albert was called into his dugout. Funny that. You’re all soldiers together, fighting for King and Country, but a couple of ranks higher and you’re entitled to your own private rooms, while the others are left to try and get some sleep under a sky of flares, whizz-bangs and smoke. 

“I’ve been watching you, Barrett. With the other men.”

“I know, Sir. I...er, I noticed.”

“Really? Well, I thought you might have.” Arrington moved around his desk, leaning back against it.

“How are you finding the front lines?” He said this before taking an indulgent drag on his cigarette.

Albert tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. This bloody toff. He’s been here five bloody minutes, while I’ve been here nearly two fucking years, and he’s talking like I’ve just started as the new Gardener on his estate.

“I can’t really complain, Sir.”

“I should hope so too.” Arrington took another step forward, and Albert had to fight to stop himself from taking a step back.

“I heard about your brother. What was his name?”

“Joe. Joseph, Sir.” Albert replied, grief still raw in his throat. 

“Ah, yes. Joseph. My condolences.” He said this like he’d known Joe - and his family - for years. “But life goes on.” Arrington got very close. Albert felt uncomfortable with the man’s breath on his face, but he didn’t dare show it, despite the anger rising in his chest. Arrington’s tone was suggestive, a ghost of a touch brushed along his bicep. Albert had always known he was different from other boys, always out of touch with them, - particularly when they talked about girls - yet attracted to them, but he never realised it was that obvious. Being so close to another man, who was not his brother, felt curiously arousing, despite years of concealment. At the same time, however, the aura that Arrington gave off was something far more dangerous, and disconcerting. As soon as the Captain understood that the touch was not unwelcome, he brought his hands up Albert’s arms, and clutched at his shoulders, all the time staring into his eyes, except for one flicker over Albert’s shoulder, to the entrance of his dugout, checking they would not be disturbed. After what came next, Albert chided himself for ever thinking there had been any affection in Arrington’s touch. The next thing he knew, he was being pushed back to the crumbling dugout wall, Arrington’s hand fumbling with the buttons on the front of Albert’s trousers. They were pushed down, and Albert was turned around roughly so his cheek was pressed to the wall. Arrington’s hand came up over his mouth, the sweaty palm clogging what clean air Albert could manage to inhale in such a small space. There were a few moments before his vision burst into white nothingness; Arrington slamming into him. Albert, forgetting the gag, attempted a scream. It was choked back by harder pressure to his mouth: his lips mashed between strong fingers and teeth. With each thrust, Albert’s face was ground into the crumbling mud of the dugout wall, until he felt a peculiar, unwelcome warmth flood into his torn insides, and Arrington’s dripping forehead pressed onto the exposed skin of his neck. After a few moments of heavy breathing Arrington removed his hand to attend to his attire. Albert didn’t dare move: paralysed by fear, pain, exhaustion, duty, who knew?

“For God’s sake, pull your trousers up!” Arrington snapped. 

Albert half jumped out of his skin at this. He followed the barker order, pulling his trousers up over his shaking, weak knees, and carefully up onto his waist. 

“I’m surprised. I thought you wanted it, but you’re a tight little bastard. Well, didn’t you?”

Albert was shakily adjusting his uniform, trying to make it look like nothing had happened, trying to make himself pretend it had never happened. He said nothing, too in shock to reply. A sharp slap followed his silence. 

“Didn’t you?!”

Albert felt his lip split. Shaken, he said:

“Y-y-yes, Sir.”

Arrington stood, triumphant, for a moment.

“Get out.”

Albert turned to go, before Arrington coughed. Back turned to him, Albert stopped.

“You’re a clever boy. Even so, you know not to repeat this little...interlude to anyone.”

Albert made no reply, but in fear of further injury, made a hasty retreat from the dugout. It was a relief to be out in the stinking air. It smelt of blood, and mud, and the nearby latrines, but at least it felt familiar to Albert, and cleared his head. He began to walk, pain shooting through his legs and sphincter muscles with each step. He tried his very best to keep a straight face, and just keep moving. He turned countless corners, all the while his head bowed so his face did not betray his inner thoughts, until he reached an empty section of trench. When he got there, the first thing he did was double over and vomit. He hadn’t expected it, it was almost a scream from his body at its rough treatment. He took deep gulping breaths, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, his eyes and throat burning. He leant back against the wall, head tilted back, allowing the tears to fall. He heard something, and turned his head immediately to see Thomas, standing looking at him. He had a concerned expression on his face. Albert looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with him, not wanting to let Thomas see him cry. 

“You alright?” A faint northern accent accompanied the question; familiar to Albert. He remained silent - he didn’t trust that his voice would not quiver - wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, hissing at the pain that shot through his lip. 

“Eh, here. Let me ‘ave a look.” Thomas came forward, looking in his bag, pulling out a piece of cloth. He put a hand on Albert’s shoulder. Albert slunk out from under it before he knew what he was doing - not wanting to ever be touched again. He cowed away from Thomas.

“I’m just trying to help.” Thomas had taken offence at this, and turned to go, stuffing the cloth into a pocket, He’d felt sorry for the quiet boy, and had made a pact with himself to try and keep an eye on him, considering what happened only about an hour before. Then he heard Albert call after him:

“I...” Thomas turned, looking back. Albert looked at him, not knowing how to finish his sentence. He looked at him helplessly before turning his head down again. Thomas relented, he couldn’t leave him in this state. 

“You going to let me look at that lip?”

Albert just stood there, looking sheepishly towards him. Thomas approached, lifting Albert’s chin lightly, and begun dabbing at his lip. They were silent for a while, until Thomas broke that sacred silence:

“How’d this ‘appen? You weren’t having a punch up with the lads were ya?” He chuckled, then noticed how Albert did not share in the joke. He let it slip, the boy had been through enough. He finished attending to his lip, then lit up a cigarette, leaning against the trench wall, looking to the sky as he inhaled deeply. He looked back to Albert.

“Want one? Looks like you need it.”

Albert shook his head. He didn’t smoke. Joe had started soon after they arrived at the front, but Albert still hadn’t given in. There was another silence. A shot, screams, then a call:

“Medic! Medic!”

With a huff of annoyance, Thomas flicked his cigarette to the floor, and ground it out with the heel of his boot, saying

“And they’re off.”

He looked to Albert, who just stood there, cowed. He gave him a half smile, then made off round the corner to attend to the poor sod who’d probably been caught by a sniper, hoping he would get a chance later to check up on Albert. 

Albert let a long breath escape his mouth. Thank God that was over. It seemed like he’d held his breath the whole time Thomas had been next to him, worried it would carry his secret to Thomas’ ears. He stayed there for a while. He tried to sit down, but it was too uncomfortable, and so he remained, leaning against the trench wall, trying to fathom why Arrington had chosen him. He knew he was the quietest in the regiment, so not likely to reveal the details of their encounters to the other men, and he was also the youngest. He had joined the army at the same time as his brother: Joe was 18, and Albert not yet 17. It wasn’t so much patriotic zeal, but the need to be with Joe, to follow him wherever he went, that led to him joining up before he was the right age. They passed themselves off as twins, which wasn’t hard considering most people in their village thought that already. Joe had promised their mother that he would look after their Albie, before they made their way up the road, marching to war and glory, waving to their crying mother. How wrong they were. Now Joe wasn’t here, and Albie had to look after himself.

The meetings with Arrington only continued from there. Albert thought it would only be the once, any thought of it continuing made his stomach turn, but Arrington had other ideas. Each time, for his own sake, Albert willed himself to relax, but instead it was just getting harder and harder to even be in the same space as the Captain, who had shown on several occasions his propensity for humiliation and violence. After each encounter, Albert tried his best to avoid Thomas for a short while, in an effort not to unwittingly reveal this awful secret, and make it seem like his life was continuing as normal (well as normal as it could be on the front-lines during a war); he also needed the time to make himself look presentable, and cover up any obvious injuries he sustained at the hands of Arrington. He and Thomas did speak more often, but Albert found it increasingly hard as he now appeared to have adopted a stammer, and he just hoped that Thomas hadn’t noticed. The same way he hoped he didn’t notice that any time Thomas touched him, by accident or design, Albert would flinch. Thomas learnt, but Albert still tried to prevent any opportunities arising where he could accidentally make contact. 


	2. Chapter 2

He was told the CO wanted to see him, as a matter of urgency. Albert’s stomach dropped and he felt sick, as happened every time this message was brought to him by some sod, who never stopped to realise the pain, and torment it put him through. He swallowed hard, pushed himself off the trench wall, and dragged his tired feet along the duck boards, head bowed in resignation and exhaustion, until he reached Captain Arrington’s dugout. He pulled back the makeshift curtain covering the entrance, and stepped in. Arrington was there, waiting, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Without needing to be told - this was the routine now - Albert stepped further into the room and started to remove his jacket and shirt, and unbuttoned his trousers. He never once made eye contact with Arrington, a trick he had used for quite a while now to try to reduce the dread he felt every time he stepped into that cramped space. Arrington followed suit, all the time his eyes boring holes into Albert’s cheek. He stepped close to Albert, the familiar stench of brandy on his breath - a new addition to the mix of aromas in the Captain’s ‘office’ - puffing onto his downturned face. Arrington took a last drag, then, still staring at Albert’s face, pressed the burning tip into the flesh of Albert’s shoulder blade, a ritual he enjoyed enormously, a smirk stretching his dry, cracked lips. For Albert, there was no longer any pain; he heard the sizzle, and smelt the burning of his flesh. But no pain.

“Well? Come on then.” Arrington said, with a kick to the side of Albert’s shin, when he was not forthcoming. Albert staggered a little under the blow, and swallowed, this time no saliva accompanied the movement of his throat. He got down on his knees, Arrington grabbing a fistful of his hair. Of all the things Arrington made him do, this was the worst, Albert thought. It was another ritual humiliation Arrington liked to put him through. When he came, he would hold Albert’s head fast by his hair, forcing himself deeper into Albert’s throat, forcing him to swallow the foul substance. This time, his subconscious refusing to let him be treated this way any more, Albert wrenched Arrington’s hand from his head, and stood up, pushing away from him. Shocked at such insolence, Arrington slapped Albert in the face, not pausing before he kneed him in the stomach. Albert doubled over, breathless, collapsing to the floor, curled up into a protective ball as Arrington kicked him. During this onslaught, Albert caught a glimpse of the curtain moving, and a pair of boots standing in the doorway to the dugout. Arrington ceased his kicking at once, in a hurry to cover himself from the intruder. 

“What do you want, man? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Arrington’s voice was incredulous, but his complexion gave away his embarrassment.

“Sorry, Sir, but it sounded like someone was in pain. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. As I’m here, though, may I take a look at Private Barrett? He seems a little unwell.”

Albert, who could just about hear Thomas’ words through the blood pumping in his ears, was still in a ball on the floor, clutching his stomach, blood running down his cheek from a split on his nose, caused by Arrington’s boot. Arrington, who was adjusting his trousers, replied:

“Ahem. Er...Yes, yes Corporal Barrow, yes he seems to have stumbled over my desk...” He trailed off, unsure how to cover up his deeds, particularly to a soldier who would be harder to exploit than the pile of shit at his feet. Thomas brought over Albert’s jacket and shirt, and helped him sit up, leaning Albert against him. Arrington, urgent to get out, to run away from this compromising situation, made some blundering excuse, and rushed out into the trench. 

“Fucking arsehole.” Albert thought he heard Thomas say under his breath, followed by:

“Come on then, up y’get” he said, as he hauled Albert to his feet.

“There we are.” There was silence for a moment while Thomas checked the cut on Albert’s nose, and checked the rest of his body for any serious damage. “Christ” he exhaled when he saw the burn marks on Albert’s back.

“How long has this been going on for?”

Albert shrugged, ashamed and therefore unwilling to reveal any information about the situation. Eventually, when he could no longer take Thomas’ concerned and questioning stare, he said, “S-s-since Joe...”. He couldn’t finish; he took a deep breath, the expansion of his lungs making his sore ribs ache. Thomas patted his shoulder carefully, to avoid causing the poor boy any more pain, and moved to stand in front of him. “Look at me.” he said, waiting for Albert to lift his head, and eyes, to his face. “You don’t ‘ave to worry about Arrington anymore, alright? He won’t try anything after this - at least not for a while. If, or when, he tries again, he’ll ‘ave to get through me first.” Albert just looked down the ground to the side of Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas then knew to the extent this poor boy had been broken by the Captain. Thomas just patted his shoulder again, and helped him on with his shirt and jacket, as Albert could do no more than clutch his ribs and stomach, with moans and hisses of pain at the slightest movement. Each time Thomas touched his skin, Albert would flinch. He was worried Thomas might take offence like he had done before, but the man was patient and continued to help him dress, and make him at least half presentable.

They were in a corner of a small dugout - it reminded Albert of a cave - that Thomas had acquired, as reward for his duties as a medic, or because he’d tricked someone out of it, Albert was unsure, and to be honest, he didn’t care. Thomas handed him a small mug of tea. Albert tentatively reached out to grasp it in his cold hands, smiling his thanks. He held it for a while, warming his fingers, staring into the almost black liquid. Of course, they had run out of milk months ago, but swirling around in the mug, Albert couldn’t help but liken it to a muddy whirlpool that could suck him in at any moment. All the time Thomas attended the small stove in the centre of the dugout, Albert watched his movements. 

“You can sleep in here tonight, you look like you could do with a rest.” Albert looked away at this, not wanting Thomas to catch him staring; nodding his head like a child. 

“Th-th-thank you” Such a simple phrase did not seem to carry the weight Albert had intended it with, especially with this stupid stutter. Thomas smiled, noticing the stammer again. Thomas had registered a stammer in Albert’s speech, since his brother’s death and had attributed it to the grief. Now he knew better. It all fitted together like a perfectly cut jigsaw: Albert’s recoiling from the slightest touch; all the times he was summoned to the Captain’s office, and then his avoidance of Thomas when he returned; his new stammer; the pure exhaustion from sleepless nights; and the times when he would wince when sitting down, when he thought Thomas wasn’t looking. Thomas was no head doctor, but it was obvious to anyone that all these symptoms were as a result of constant mistreatment. And this was what made Thomas angry, made him want to go to Arrington’s dugout and do to him exactly what he had done to the shivering wreck of a boy who sat in front of him: the fact that he hadn’t put two and two together and done something to prevent the boy suffering any further. But that wouldn’t help anyone, he knew. His years in service had taught him to think before he acted, and besides which, he knew that Albert needed him here. Thomas put all his feelings aside and passed him a blanket, and gave him his medical bag as a pillow. And for the first time in weeks, Albert fell asleep. 

He was in Arrington’s dugout again, he couldn’t remember how he got there, but he was, and he was in trouble. 

“You’re disgusting. You know that? You know what happens to little shits like you?” Arrington removed his belt - not the soft, cloth belt that was usually secured around his waist, but one of rough leather, with a heavy brass buckle at the end. Albert tried to escape, but his feet wouldn’t let him. Arrington stepped towards him, wrapping the belt several times around his hand. The man who was usually smaller than Albert, now towered over him. The buckle was brought down across his face, but Albert didn’t scream - not like he used to. He’d lost the power of speech. Arrington moved until he was standing behind Albert. He pushed him onto his hands and knees, and pulled down his trousers, grabbing a fistful of hair, wrenching his head back. Whiteness exploded into his vision again. Then there was black. And he was running. Running through mud, and water, and bodies. His vision was clearing, fading into the scene that surrounded him as he ran. Shells exploding, machine gun fire, and screams. He was running through No Man’s Land, men everywhere - living and dead. And there was Arrington, right next to him, running beside him - fear held his eyes open wide. Albert felt sorry for him. Even after the suffering he made Albert endure, he felt sorry for him. He heard the familiar scream and whistling of air, and looked to see the shell, heading straight for them. He ran sideways, unsure and unconcerned where Arrington was. It was getting closer. Albert tripped over a body, causing him to stumble and look back to see Arrington frozen to the spot, staring at the incoming bomb. Albert spun and ran, straight towards him. He didn’t know why, his legs appeared to be moving on their own. It hit– 

Albert woke in a cold sweat, screaming. It took him a few seconds to realise he was in a hospital bed, in a warm, quiet room, with Thomas holding him. 

“Shhh. You’re just dreaming. Shhhhh.” He stroked the sweat-slicked hair from Albert’s forehead. Breathing heavily, Albert blurted out “It was ‘im, he...I couldn’t breathe. It hit.” He was in such a state - tears flowing freely down his cheeks, sobbing - he didn’t realise what he was saying until his words had escaped his mouth. He stared at Thomas, in fear and shame of what he had just revealed. 

“Christ almighty.” Thomas paused, still holding Albert. Albert still stared at him, remembering how Thomas had found him and Arrington in the dugout - he already knew what had happened between them. He was stunned. He knew, or had realised the extent to which Albert’s mind had been broken by Arrington, but these nightmares were an eye-opener. Thomas also noticed how Albert’s stammer disappeared when he screamed. 

Albert slowed his breathing, trying to stop the burn in his lungs. There was the sound of someone retching, then vomiting onto the floor nearby. Thomas, looked up at the sound, annoyed that he could not stay with Albert and look after him, then looked down at him, half-smiling. He carefully laid him back onto his pillows, and went to attend the man who’d just thrown up.

That must have been pretty strong stuff that they used to knock him out, he felt like he’d slept for days - he probably had, Albert thought. After he’d recovered most of his senses, he realised the antagonising itch he felt in his left foot. He looked down the bed, only to see the cream coloured fabric of the sheets, tented from his waist to the end of the bed. Albert felt sick. There was no nurse nearby, no one to pass him a kidney dish. He didn’t care; there wasn’t enough time anyway. The bile erupted from his throat; all down his front, and the nice, cream sheets. When he’d finished, he laid his head back on the pillows, too exhausted to even wipe his mouth. He heard a man next to him call for a nurse, who came rushing in, muttering something Albert couldn’t quite comprehend, despite the clear, crisp accent she spoke with. She cleaned him up, brought him a glass of water, then went to fetch the doctor.

The doctor strode into the room, holding a clipboard. He looked striking in his army uniform, white coat, and well-maintained mustache. He walked over to Albert, nodding ‘hello’ to some of his other patients on the way. When he got to Albert, he stood at the foot of his bed, with a kind expression on his face. 

“Hello, Private Barrett, my name’s Dr. Clarkson. How are you feeling today?” He spoke with a soft Scottish brogue, and kept his eyes on Albert while he spoke to him. 

Albert coughed, his throat felt hoarse from screaming, and then vomiting, “I’m a-a-alright, I s-s-s’pose, Sir, th-thank you.”

“Jolly good. Could you tell me if you have any sensation in your legs?”

Albert’s brow furrowed at this. Of course he’d noticed the frame holding the sheets up covering the bottom half of his bed, but how had Dr. Clarkson known that he felt something? 

“Mmmm-my f-f-foot’s itching” The Doctor wrote something on his clipboard, then looked back to Albert, walking to the side of his bed. 

“May I?” he said, gesturing to the sheets covering the frame. Albert nodded his permission and watched as Clarkson lifted the sheets back carefully. His face went stony as soon as he saw what was underneath them. Albert, unable to read his expression, asked him, 

“W-w-what is it, Sir? W-w-what’s the mmm-matter?” The Doctor turned to the nurse and muttered something. She responded by turning and walking towards the door; as she went she greeted the man in the bed next to Albert in a friendly manner. Dr. Clarkson looked at Albert, and spoke with a sympathetic look on his face.

“Barrett, do you know, or indeed remember, why you came here?”

Albert thought for a moment. Come to think of it, he couldn’t; he shook his head.

“Well, it appears that you ran in front of your commanding officer out in No Man’s Land, just as a shell landed nearby. The blast caught your leg, and despite your best efforts, I’m sorry to tell you that Captain Arrington died of his wounds several hours later.” Albert couldn’t believe it. Arrington dead? He’d hated the man, ever since that day he forced him against his dugout wall, but in that minute, all he could think of was to jump in front of him, as the bomb exploded. He swallowed hard; focusing again on Dr. Clarkson’s words,

“...we did our best to save your leg, but unfortunately we had to perform an amputation just below the knee. I’m very sorry, but it appears as if the wound has become infected. There’s very little we can do I’m afraid, apart from bathe it twice a day, and hope you get through it.”

Albert stared at him, dumbstruck. Clarkson noticed the boy’s silence, and having noticed the stammer - and being informed of it by Barrow earlier that day - he did not want to make him suffer any longer, so he said, 

“I’ll give you some time for this to sink in. Try to get some rest, I’ll be back at the end of the day.” He left, looking back down at his notes, shaking his head at the pure injustice of it all, off to complete his rounds. Albert felt like he wanted to cry, he felt breathless, he started to take deep shuddering breaths. He tried his best to slow his breathing. This wasn’t helped by Thomas’ sudden presence. Albert felt his heart race even more. 

“How are you? Has Clarkson been to see you yet?”

“Y-yes he h-h-has. He t-t-told me what ‘a-a-appened...about mm-my leg.” Albert looked down to where his leg would have been.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be back on your feet in no time.” Thomas said with a smile, then he realised his error; his cheeks reddened. 

There was an awkward silence before Albert erupted into laughter - for the first time in a long while. Thomas chuckled nervously back. “Sorry.” he said, still softly laughing.

Albert continued to laugh for some while, on the brink of tears, but then got serious for a moment, 

“H-h-he said all ‘e c-c-could do was s-s-see if I g-get through it” he said with a concerned look on his face. Thomas looked back at him, just about to say something, before a voice called to him:

“Thomas, I wonder if you could help me? Lieutenant Courtney won’t take his pills.” The nurse had returned, holding a small glass of tablets. 

“Yes, of course. I’ll come and see you when I can.” Thomas said, then went to the nurse and took the glass from her, leaving the room. 

The nurse came over to him. “Shall I get you a bit more comfortable?” She lent over him and adjusted his pillows and sheets. She smiled.

“Are you in any pain?”

Albert shook his head; his foot - or rather where his foot would have been - was still itching like mad though.

“Mmmm-my foot...” he looked, down unsure how to finish his sentence. She picked it up for him, “Is it itching?”. Albert nodded; she smiled and said, “I’ll just fetch some warm water, and bathe it for you.”

“Th-th-thank you, mmm-miss.”

Before she went, she replied, “You’re very welcome, but you don’t need to call me ‘miss’. Nurse Crawley will do very well.” She left the room, and returned a few moments later, with a bowl of warm soapy water, and several cloths.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas felt wretched for not being able to see Albert all day. He’d been rushed off his feet with the incoming avalanche of wounded from France to the small village hospital. But he also felt that he owed Lieutenant Courtenay some of his time, so as soon as he had a free moment he resolved to go and see him. After all, Albert would probably be asleep, the infection - from what he’d heard Clarkson say - had properly kicked in now; and even if he were awake Edward had been moved to the bed next to him. 

“'Things cannot be as they were and Jack has your best interests at heart.' Stop.” Edward’s face was grim. “Who's Jack?” Thomas enquired, folding the telegram up. 

“My younger brother. He means to replace me. It's what he's always wanted.” 

“Yeah, well–”. Edward cut Thomas off, “I'm sorry. I mustn't bore you.”

But Thomas wanted to make himself heard, “Don't let them walk all over you. You've got to fight your corner.”

Edward seemed determined to allow his blindness to shackle him to an invalid’s bed,

“What with?” 

But Thomas was determined too, “Your brain. You're not a victim. Don't let them make you into one.” A ghost of a smile crossed Edward’s face, and a soft chuckle bubbled from his throat.

“You know, when you talk like that...I almost believe you.”

“You should believe me. All my life they've...pushed me around just ‘cause I'm different.” Thomas could feel his voice quiver, and a sob rise in his throat.

“How? Why are you different?”

“Never mind. Look, I don't know if you're going to see again or not. But I do know you have to fight back.” Edward smiled again in Thomas’ general direction, and patted his hand on Thomas’ knee. Thomas looked down, and put his own hand on top of Edwards’. He heard a cough, and instinctively looked up, and saw Albert in the next bed, coughing and shaking.

“I’ve got to go, you get some rest.” He put the telegram on Edward’s bedside table, patted him on the shoulder, and rushed round to Albert’s bed. There was a bowl of cool water, with a cloth in it, and Thomas wrung it out and placed it on Albert’s forehead. His eyes flickered half-open, looking straight at Thomas. Albert started to struggle, and Thomas made shushing noises, and dabbed at his forehead with the cloth, and grabbed Albert’s hand, squeezing it, in an effort to comfort him, and assure him someone was there. That he wasn’t alone. 

Albert had a blurry view of a man sitting on his bed, looking down at him. He felt a squeeze of his hand, and felt liquid dribble down his burning face. He started to struggle. He thought he’d escaped Arrington, he was sure he had, but he’d found him here. He wasn’t safe. He started to shout and scream,

“No! No! Don’t make me, please, please, leave me alone! Don’t! Don’t!” Thomas tried his best to quieten him, to prevent him revealing something he would regret letting the rest of the ward hear. He cursed himself. He should’ve gone to Edward second, Albert needed his attention more. Then Albert went quiet. He stopped wriggling. Just when Thomas had thought Albert had fallen back into his previous comatose state, his whole body started to convulse and shake. Albert’s head pulled back, his eyes rolling back in his head, and saliva frothing at his mouth. Thomas couldn’t help it, he screamed. 

“Help! Help, someone please!” Nurse Crawley, who was attending a soldier somewhere else in the ward, rushed over, her boots clicking on the wooden floor. She went to Albert’s other side and held his arm down, whispering softly to him. Dr. Clarkson came running in a moment later, and starting removing his belt. He tried to hold Albert’s head down as he placed the strap in his mouth to stop him swallowing his tongue. The seizure only lasted about a minute, but to Thomas it felt like it had lasted a lifetime. At one point he thought he would vomit, and nearly did, and afterwards he had to sit down on the chair next to the bed before his legs gave way beneath him. 

Albert woke up after the seizure. That had obviously been the crisis the Doctor had talked of, and he’d passed it. Just as he’d allowed himself to breathe normally, he saw Doctor Clarkson holding a belt - a leather strap and brass buckle. He pushed himself up, or attempted to with what little strength he had after two fever-ridden days, and back as far as he could on the bed, staring fearfully at the object, tears filling his eyes. Then Thomas was there. Holding him, stroking his head, shushing his sobs.

“It’s alright, Doctor. I’ll stay with him tonight.” His eyes pleaded with Clarkson to just leave. Leave him and Albert alone, to not cause the poor boy anymore suffering after all he had been through. Clarkson understood, and nodded his acknowledgement to Thomas, and turned to Nurse Crawley, beckoning her to come away. On her way, she took the bowl of water from the side of the bed, telling Thomas she would bring back some fresh water and a cloth. 

“Shush, shush, it’s alright. He won’t. He won’t.” Thomas continued to comfort Albert after Clarkson and Nurse Crawley had gone. As soon as he’d seen Albert’s eyes shift to the belt that Doctor Clarkson held, he could almost anticipate Albert’s exact reaction. When he’d cooled his forehead during the fevers brought on by the infection, Thomas had heard him mumble and babble. The few coherent words he had picked up seemed to indicate that the boy had suffered almost unbearable abuse at the hands of his father. That was, in part, something Thomas could relate with, but he wouldn’t ask Albert about it. Not until he was ready to give up the information freely. 

He held Albert for a few more minutes, until Albert’s breathing had returned to normal, and then settled him against his pillows and gave him a glass of water.

“We’d best get you out of those clothes later on.” Thomas said it with such normality, and conviction, he was slightly taken aback by the frightened and shy face that stared back at him. 

“Because you haven’t changed for a couple of days, I meant. And what with the fevers...” Thomas didn’t know how to finish. God, what was he thinking? The poor lad looked scared half to death. Albert seemed to relax slightly after Thomas’ blurted explanation, however, and they sat in silence for a while. After he could take it no more, and realised that Albert was starting to stare at him, Thomas suggested that he go and get some clean clothes, some water to wash him, and a screen. Albert replied with a quick nod, not making eye contact with Thomas, staring down at his sheets. 

Thomas returned, pulled the screen round the bed, and laid the clothes on the chair, and placed the bowl of water onto the bedside table, where he had removed the other bowl when he left, with some clean bandages. He stood next to the bed, looking down at Albert, and asked,

“Is it alright for me to do this, or would you prefer someone else?” Albert looked back at him, his expression blank for a moment before he nodded, and said,

“I-i-it’s alrigh’ f-f-for you. O-o-only if you d-don’t mmm-mind that is...” Thomas smiled back, and bent down to help him lean forward.

“Don’t worry, I used to dress men for a living. I’m well practised. ” 

Thomas was patient with Albert. He removed his shirt first, pulling it back gently to reveal a bandage wrapped around Albert’s mid-section, partially soaked with blood and sweat. He then dripped water down his back, and slowly mopped away the salt stains, before carefully undoing the bandage, and cleaning the now-healing wound. It wasn’t too deep, and the shrapnel hadn’t hit any vital organs - that may have been why Albert hadn’t noticed it until now - but he still hissed slightly when Thomas dabbed at it with the cloth. Thomas tried to make it as quick and painless a process as he could before placing a clean bandage on it. He partly enjoyed the sensation of running his hands around Albert’s torso - although he would never admit it. The same could be said for Albert who, rather than recoil from the touches, revelled in the feeling of kind, gentle hands on his bare body. The awkward part came when Thomas had helped him on with a clean shirt, and the next step was to change his trousers. Thomas couldn’t deny there had been some almost palpable connection between them, and had they been in any other circumstance he would have taken full advantage of it, but looking at this poor, weak, battered boy, he didn’t have the heart to try anything - particularly after his experiences with Arrington. Instead, he looked up to Albert’s face, having finished buttoning the shirt, and looked for approval, or at least consent in those young eyes.

“I-I-I don’t mmm-mind, y’know. It’s a-a-alrigh’.” Albert said this with a shy smile, furtively looking into Thomas eyes, but flicking them away again when Thomas looked back. 

“Alright then. If you feel uncomfortable just tell me to stop.” Albert nodded his understanding, and did his best to try and hold his hips up so Thomas could shuffle his trousers down. Thomas swallowed hard and tried not to stare at Albert’s nakedness, trying to steady his breathing. He focused all his attention or removing the trousers carefully over the bandaged stump, cruelly left where the rest of Albert’s leg should have been. It shocked him more than he thought to see it. He looked up to Albert who sat there staring at the empty space below his knee, tears welling up in his eyes. Thomas placed his hand on Albert’s right thigh, looking right into Albert’s eyes. 

“It’ll be alright.” He said it with more conviction than he felt at that moment, anything to stop the boy crying. Albert sniffed, trying to compose himself, staring straight forwards at the folds of grey material that belonged to the screen. He would not let Thomas see him cry. He’d managed it before in some trench in France, so he would manage it now. But he nearly failed when Thomas started to clean what was left of his leg. 

As hard as Thomas tried to be as delicate as possible, he knew he couldn’t do it painlessly. It brought him some comfort knowing that, although there was pain now, it would stop greater pain later. 

Once the wound was clean and bandaged, Thomas now had to clean the rest of Albert’s lower half - a task which he was both looking forward to and dreading. He’d just about held himself together getting his trousers off, but now, when he was about to make almost skin on skin contact, his mind couldn’t help wandering to those nights he’d spent with Philip one summer in London. But he didn’t want to scare Albert, or push him into anything, so he tried to gather his wits and focus on the task at hand. 

Albert, having just recovered from the pain of having his wound cleaned, now concentrated on the shame he feared he would bring on himself when Thomas started cleaning his right leg. Thomas had probably already guessed Albert’s secret, the night he found him and Arrington in the Captain’s dugout, but Albert couldn’t bear the thought of it becoming obvious as Thomas got closer to his groin. 

Thomas was surprisingly quick. No sooner than when he first touched Albert, he dropped the cloth back into the bowl and picked up the trousers from the chair. Thomas knew it had to be that way. The selfish part of him said it was for his sake, but at the back of his mind he knew it was because of the way Albert stared straight ahead, almost unblinking, and the way his jaw clenched. When he’d finished getting the trousers on, he picked up the bowl and dirty clothes, and looked at Albert.

“There. Weren’t too bad. I’ll try to see you tomorrow if I can. Now you get some well-deserved rest.” He hoped the slight quiver in his voice didn’t give him away. He tried to behave normally, or as normal as he could with that beautiful face looking up at him. Albert smiled at him, looking a little more at ease, and replied,

“I-I-I’ll be w-waiting.” He smiled again, and Thomas returned that smile, and then pushed the screen back, and went to dispose of the clothes in the laundry.


	4. Chapter 4

The next several days passed without incident. Thomas tried to see Albert as often as he could, and whenever he got the chance, Albert was waiting with a smile on his face, just as he’d promised. He started taking him out in a wheelchair, in the hospital’s small garden, and sometimes further beyond, if Thomas had some time off. They talked about everything - their families, their homes, what they thought they might do after the war, Thomas’ hand. Thomas didn’t tell him the truth. He didn’t want Albert to judge him, and hate him, despite feeling that such a boy couldn’t possibly hate anything or anyone - look what he’d done for Arrington. He was patient with Albert’s stutter, and always allowed him enough time to finish what he wanted to say, concentrating on what he was saying. Thomas wondered how long he would have it for; a year, a decade, the rest of his life? It didn’t matter. Thomas would be there with him for as long as he could - his whole life if Albert would let him. Whether he saw Thomas as a friend, or something more - oh, how he wished for that - Thomas would stay next to him through everything. 

When the news came to him that Edward was to be moved to a convalescence home, Thomas could barely contain his anger, and he was put in his place by Clarkson for his trouble. That night, Edward was found in his bed with his wrists slit, and a look of pure misery on his blood-drained face. Thomas felt sick. He sat on the floor in his room, back to the wall, and cried. It was the first time he’d cried since he was a child; he’d forgotten the sensation of tears on his cheeks, and the taste of salt on his lips. The next morning, Clarkson gave him some leave - he had the whole day off, and the first thing Thomas did was go to find Albert. When he got to the ward, however, the first thing that struck him was the clean, made bed, and the absence of Albert from it. His pulse quickened, and he frantically looked around the room, but there was no sign of him. Had Dr. Clarkson sent him away to convalesce like he had planned for Edward? Surely Albert wouldn’t have gone without wanting to say goodbye to him, at least. He decided to check the garden, already resigned to the fact that Albert had probably been sent off earlier this morning. He burst out of the doors into the garden. 

There was Albert. Sitting in his wheelchair, looking up at the sky - as he tended to do when Thomas had taken him outside - with a blanket on his lap. Thomas breathed a huge sigh of relief, and just stood there, soaking up the sight of the boy only yards away from him. He walked towards him slowly, swallowing back the tears that threatened. He went to stand in front of Albert, blocking the sun from his face, and causing him to open his eyes. 

“H-hello. Are y-you alrigh’?” Thomas looked pale and tired, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. Thomas just looked back, a smile creeping across his face. Then he went round behind Albert and started pushing the chair. 

“W-w-where are we g-going?” Thomas didn’t answer, he just wanted to be only with him, hidden from sight. He took him out of the hospital garden, down a small street, and into a some woodland.

“We’re in the grounds of Downton Abbey, the house I used to work for.” Thomas said as he pushed Albert through the trees. He’d always liked the woods. Always found comfort in the quiet and solace, with nothing but his thoughts. He continued to push Albert through the steadily thickening trees, until he couldn’t go any further in the chair. 

“Well, there’s only one thing for it.” Thomas crouched in front of Albert, his back to him. “Hop on then.” Albert sat in the chair for a moment, unsure whether to follow Thomas’ command. 

“What are you waiting for?” Albert gathered himself, shifted himself forward, and put his arms on Thomas’ shoulders. Thomas took his legs, and after a moment lifted him up, hitching him up as he stood, then started to walk forwards - abandoning the useless wheelchair. 

As Thomas walked Albert couldn’t help but think of how similar this was to when Joe used to carry him home when he got tired at the end of a day’s play, with grazed knees - except he had worse than grazed knees now. 

When it seemed like hours had passed, they finally reached the place Thomas wanted to show Albert: a small lake, at the edge of the line of trees. Thomas heard Albert take in a sharp breath, and smiled to himself. He thought he would like it. He found a flat patch of grass, with a tree to lean against, and gently let Albert down. Albert shifted until he got comfortable as Thomas sat next to him. 

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Thomas’ eyes were glinting as he looked out across the lake, and Albert thought something had changed.

“W-what’s the mmm-matter?” Albert asked gently, not wishing to pry, but wanting to offer comfort. 

“Ahhh. I was just thinking. Thinking this place is beautiful. Like you.” Thomas looked around to Albert, looking deep into his eyes, willing to get across just in his gaze, how much Albert meant to him - particularly as Edward had gone. He had guessed that Albert was that way inclined, and so he wasn’t in danger of being exposed, but he was in fear of rejection from the only person he ever thought he could love - wholly and completely. 

Albert stared back. Did he hear that right, or was his mind just playing tricks on him? He could hardly believe it, it was all he had wanted from the moment he saw Thomas, and now it was happening. 

“I-I-I always th-thought you were b-be-beautiful, actually.” Albert smiled at Thomas, shyly, unsure what would happen next. Thomas looked at him for a while more, before he leaned across and pressed his lips to Albert’s. 

Albert didn’t quite know what to do, but after a moment he kissed Thomas back. It was chaste; lips closed, eyes closed. But it was the first time Albert had ever kissed a man, and it felt wonderful.

Thomas was the first to break away from the kiss, he smiled at Albert before he spoke seriously to him.

“Would you spend your life with me? I would look after you. And I would never, ever hurt you.” Thomas place a hand on Albert’s face, stroking his cheekbone lightly with his thumb. Albert could see the plea in Thomas’ eyes, if he didn’t want to say yes anyway, he might have said it just for the look Thomas gave him. Albert poured all his concentration into his answer, not wanting to mess it up, wanting it to be flawless.

“Yes.” Thomas’ face erupted into pure happiness, and tears started to flow freely down his cheeks, and this time he didn’t try to stop them. Albert was there, though. Reaching out his hands to cup Thomas’ face, and brush away the tears from his cheeks with his lean fingers, and pull him into an embrace, holding Thomas’ head against his chest, stroking his head.

“You hear th-that? That’s y-y-yours in there.” Thomas lifted his head from Albert’ chest, and looked into Albert’s eyes again, brushing away a lock of hair that had strayed into Albert’s eyes, and pulled him into another kiss. 

Albert’s secret had always made him feel dirty. The obscene desires and thoughts, had always made him feel out of place - even disgusted when his mother had warned him of the evils of such men. But when Thomas kissed him, all those doubts and fears just melted away, and Albert felt safe, and loved. And he knew he’d found his home.

**Author's Note:**

> A future story is in production.


End file.
